


A little Misunderstanding

by alynwa



Series: Picfic Tuesday Challenge [67]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-18
Updated: 2014-11-18
Packaged: 2018-02-26 04:54:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2638802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alynwa/pseuds/alynwa





	A little Misunderstanding

Agent Salvatore Del Floria was alone in his tailor shop putting the finishing touches on several suits that had been ordered by Napoleon Solo and a few outside customers. Contrary to some UNCLE employees’ belief, Sal really did know how to sew, measure and design custom made suits; a skill that the CEA utilized often as he received the UNCLE employee discount.

It was eleven o’clock on a Wednesday morning; the agents who used his entrance had already reported for duty. For the millionth time, he wondered if anyone ever noticed that people walked into the shop and disappeared for hours at a time. He recalled one time a young lady entered the shop barely a minute after Mark Slate with a pair of her husband’s slacks asking if the rip in it could be repaired. As he wrote out her ticket, he noticed her glance around the shop and frown. “What is it, young lady? You look confused.”

“I’m sorry, but didn’t I see a man come in just ahead of me? I don’t understand where he is.”

Sal laughed, “Oh, yes, you did. I had his suit ready for him to try on and he went straight into the fitting room.” He discreetly pushed a button under the counter. “Mr. Jones,” he called, “Are you ready to come out?”

A man’s laugh gurgled out of the last changing room. “Sal, you know I don’t like to step out when someone’s here, especially a woman. I’ll come out when she leaves.”

The woman smiled at Sal. “Sounds like my husband,” she said, “He doesn’t like anyone seeing him in clothing he’s trying on, either.” Louder, she spoke up, “Don’t worry, Sir; I’m leaving. Have a good day.” She walked out the door and up the stairs. After a few seconds, he pressed his intercom button. “Thanks, Geoffrey.” The button he pressed was monitored by two agents in Section III during his business hours just in case an Innocent became curious. Surveillance cameras and recording devices had been installed in discreet places around the shop after the last attempted THRUSH invasion of HQ, but sometimes, a little deception was also needed to maintain his cover.

The little bell above the door rang, announcing someone’s arrival. Sal looked up from his work to see two rather large, beefy men in suits and ties enter. “Good morning, Gentlemen. What can I do for you today?”

“ _Ciao. È venuto all'attenzione del nostro capo che siete da Bari._ (Hello. It has come to the attention of our boss that you are from Bari.),” the larger of the two said as he pulled his gloves off his hands one finger at a time.

 _“Io sono di Bari. Chi è il tuo capo?_ (I am from Bari. Who is your boss?)”

“ _Roberto Spinello. Cugino del nostro capo ha un figlio che fu mandato in prigione dalla ex capo dei detective di Bari. Il nostro capo non è interessato a vendicare il figlio del suo cugino. Non ha mai voluto lui, ma si sente che un tributo mensile da pagare a lui ripristinerà onore di famiglia. Dire, trecento dollari al mese. Torneremo domani per farlo. (_ Robert Spinello. Our boss' cousin has a son who was sent to prison by the former Chief of Detectives of Bari. Our boss is not interested in avenging his cousin's son. He never liked him, but he feels that a monthly tribute payable to him will restore the family's honor. Say, three hundred dollars a month. We'll come back tomorrow to get it.”

Sal was stunned at how a part of his past had followed him to New York.* A local Mafia boss wanted him to pay protection money? He forced himself to swallow his anger long enough to ask, “ _E, se mi rifiuto di pagare... questo omaggio? (_ And, if I refuse to pay this...tribute?)”

 

The second man, who had remained silent throughout the conversation, looked around and finally spoke up, “ _C'è un sacco di bel legno cercando in questo luogo. Cosa di legno è: può prendere fuoco molto facilmente. Ci vediamo domani. (_ There's a lot of nice looking wood in this place. Thing about wood is: It can catch fire very easily. See you tomorrow.)”

And with that, the men left.

 

Moments later, Matt Christie**, head of Section III, emerged from the changing room with two agents in tow. “Sal, what’s happening? It took us a few minutes to get an Italian – speaking agent to listen in on what was going on here so we only heard what sounded like a threat from those clowns.”

 

Sal flipped the sign on his door to “Closed for Lunch” and filled his coworkers in on what had transpired. “I need to speak with Mr. Waverly,” he said, “I don’t think they will come back today, Matt, but could you assign someone to stay here with me for the afternoon?”

 

“Not a problem, Sal. Why don’t you go see the Old Man now? I’ll leave Ruffalo here to keep an eye on things.”

 

Sal passed through Reception, asking Glenna to call ahead to let Lisa Rogers know that he was on his way. When the pneumatic door slid open to Lisa’s office, she smiled at him and said, “Go right in, Agent Del Floria. He’s expecting you.”

 

“Sallie, have a seat. What is this nonsense about a shakedown for protection money?”

 

It didn’t surprise Sal in the least that Alexander was already aware of what had happened. After making sure Number One, Section I had all the details he asked, “What do you want me to do, Alex?”

 

Alex harrumphed and stuck his pipe between his teeth. He struck a match, drew the flame into the bowl by sucking rather loudly and when the tobacco within was lit to his satisfaction, he looked at his old friend and smiled. “Not to worry. I have an idea that should put this entire matter to rest.” He pressed his intercom button. “Miss Rogers, send for Mr. Kuryakin, will you?”

 

“Right away, Sir.”

 

The Russian entered, nodded to Sal and then took his usual seat even though Napoleon wasn’t with him. “You wanted to see me, Sir?”

 

“Yes, Mr. Kuryakin. Do you think you, or rather, your alter – ego Vladimir Rushenko, are still on friendly terms with Frank Costello of the Chicago crime syndicate?”***

 

“Yes, Mr. Waverly; I actually spoke with him while Napoleon and I were on vacation in Las Vegas six months ago. What would you have me do?”

 

“Call him. Tell him that someone under your protection has been approached by a capo in the Gambino family who’s demanding protection money from him and you would consider it a great favor if he were to intercede with the head of the Gambinos to straighten this out and avoid war between the Mafia and the Russian mob.”

 

“Consider it done, Sir.” He gestured toward the Old Man’s phone. “May I?” He went to the phone and dialed a number. “Vladimir Rushenko for Frank. Is he in? Good.” After a few moments, he began to speak in low measured tones that both men sitting at the conference table could barely make out. After ten minutes or so, Illya said his goodbyes and hung up. Facing the two older men he said, “Frank wants me to be in your shop tomorrow. He’s calling Carlo Gambino himself and asking him to put his people in check. One thing, Sir: I called in a big favor asking one Mafia head to speak to another to settle a problem Vladimir is having. He _will_ want a favor in return, one day.”

 

“I’m sure he will. We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. Report to the tailor shop when Agent Del Floria opens up and stay there until this matter is resolved.”

 

“Yes, Sir.”

 

“Dismissed.”

 

Sal and Alexander watched the young man rise from his chair and leave. “Alex, when you elevate Napoleon Solo to Section I, there’s his replacement right there.”

 

Mr. Waverly sucked on his pipe and blew heavily scented smoke into the air. “I know.”

 

The next morning, Napoleon and his partner were sitting in their shared office at six – thirty putting the finishing touches on a mission report. The blond pulled the last page out of his typewriter and handed it to the CEA. “You will be on your own for a while writing up the expense reports. I have to be in the front entrance in twenty minutes.”

 

Napoleon leaned forward and pointed at the Russian. “This has to do with that mission you went on without me, the affair where you infiltrated the Russian mob and saved Frank Costello’s life. The Old Man himself gave you that assignment and the report is marked ‘For Section One Eyes Only.’ I have no idea what you did or whether or not you were successful.”

 

“Yes, I know,” Illya replied. He could hear in his partner’s voice that it bothered Napoleon that he had been kept out of the loop. “The reason you were not told about my assignment at the time,” he explained, “was that it was considered extremely dangerous for me and probably would have been fatal if I had been discovered. Mr. Waverly is aware of the strength of our partnership and he was not interested in you attempting a rescue if I got into trouble. With your horrible accent, there was no way you could have passed for Russian.” He laughed and clapped Napoleon on the shoulder. “I promise that I will tell you about it one day, but right now, I have to go. I will see you later.”

 

Illya had been in the shop for an hour and a half when Sal said, “Here comes the two guys who were here yesterday.”

 

The Russian could see three sets of legs at the top of the stairs. “Let me do all the talking, Sal,” he ordered before three men entered the shop.

 

The smallest of the men was sharply dressed in what appeared to be a linen suit. He removed his fedora, motioned for his men to stay where they were and then stepped forward. “Are you Mr. Rushenko?” he asked.

 

“Da, I am Vladimir Rushenko,” Illya answered in a very thick Russian accent. “You have something to say to me?”

 

“I do. My name is Robert Spinello and I owe you an apology. My men here obviously misunderstood something I said about Signore Del Floria here and mistakenly thought I was looking for money from him. I can assure you, Mr. Rushenko, that is not the case. My boss, Mr. Gambino, is aware that this shop is under your protection and he wanted me to tell you, _personally_ , that nothin’ like this is ever going to happen again. He wants to know if we can consider this situation squashed.”

 

Illya remained motionless and quiet as if deep in thought. Sal was finding the silent Russian disconcerting, so he could only imagine what Spinello was feeling. Finally, Illya gave a little half – smile and announced, “The situation is, how you say, squashed. Please thank Mr. Gambino for me and tell him I said perhaps we can do business one day. _Do svidaniya._ (Goodbye.)”

Spinello nodded his head, turned and walked between his two bodyguards and out the door. After a moment, they followed him.

 

It seemed to Sal that minutes after they left, he took a breath. He looked at Illya. “Is that it? They’re not coming back?”

 

“Only if Spinello wants to commit suicide. The cease and desist order came from Gambino himself. You have nothing to worry about, Sal. I am going back to my office.”

 

“Thanks for your help, Illya.”

 

Illya waved over his shoulder as he pulled back the changing room curtain. He arrived back in his office to find himself alone. He pulled out form MR – 14 from a desk drawer and began to type up what had transpired. He knew Mr. Waverly would want to be given it directly and not have it pass through Napoleon’s hands. That thought made him remember their last conversation.

 

Shaking that off, he hurried to finish his paperwork and went to see Number One. When he was told to enter, he sat down and placed his report on the conference table and turned it so that it stopped in front of Mr. Waverly.

 

“Thank you, Mr. Kuryakin. I trust the matter is settled?”

 

“Yes, Sir. Sir, may I ask a question?” At the Old Man’s nod, he continued. “Is there any reason now that I cannot tell Napoleon about my infiltrating the Russian Mob?”

 

“No. He is CEA, if you wish to tell him, you may do so.”

 

“Thank you, Sir. If there is nothing else?” Mr. Waverly signaled that he could leave so he did. When he reentered his office, Napoleon was there. “Hello. I asked Mr. Waverly and he said I can tell you about my Russian Mob Affair.”

 

Napoleon put his pen down and smiled. “That’s great, Tovarisch! Are you going to tell me now?”

 

“No, but someday. Perhaps, over a homemade meal with lots of vodka.”

 

“You, my friend, are a blackmailer.”

 

 

*ref. my story “A Drink and a Tale” from my “Dinner and a Story” series

**Matt Christie was first mentioned in my story “Betrayal”

***ref. my drabble tale “The Vegas Chronicles” published in my “MFU Drabbles”

 


End file.
